As any of you know who read my blog, it was lost a few months ago due to the incompetence and dishonesty of these people, who stole my hosting fees and then just disappeared for two months. My blog had achieved over a million hits in less than a year, was averaging 4-8,000 hits a day, and was a top 150 blog.
It has been a hard road back, and while the entire blog was lost when Sonnex went under, I have been using Google to try and reconstruct some of my favorite posts. As I mine these posts, I will add them to ISOU classic.

There are a number of posts there now, including the rough, unedited chapters from the book I have been working on. Thanks for reading ISOU.

I am a Liberal!
Have never pretended to be anything but. A middle of the road liberal perhaps. I might even be considered conservative on some issues. But I most identify with the term Liberal, even more so than Progressive.

I don't like President Bush. Never have. Decided that the day in 2000 when I saw him walking around with a certain smugness before the election was even decided. But I don't hate him. I draw the line at hate. It is a very personal emotion for me, and one I reserve for people who have done me great personal wrong.

I try to be fair and open minded on this Blog. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I don't. Because like 99% of the rest of the Polisphere, I am a partisan. I make no bones about it. I don't agree with MOST of what Republicans and Conservatives claim to stand for. I say claim, because I believe that many beat the drum but don't march to the tune.

I didn't support the War in Iraq. I think it was a war based on assumptions and perhaps lies that was unnecessary for the time. Perhaps there would have been a time to go to War against Iraq, but I, and I believe many Americans agree would have preferred to fight it with Osama in jail or dead. Nevertheless, I believe it is a war we must win, and to that end, I support our Military in their efforts to do so. Regardless of the outcome, I believe that the legacy of the war will be a shameful one for our country and this President, with thousands dead and little likelihood that the austere goals (the current ones) of the administration, that the New Iraq will serve as a shining light of democracy in the region will come to pass. I am pessimistic in that way.

I am a Christian, but I don't believe that Jesus would be a member of the Christian Right.

I am a black man, but I don't believe that race should shield one from criticism, on the Right or Left. I have equal contempt for Sharpton, Jackson, Rice and Powell (Father and Son).

Despite strong views, sometimes defended emotionally... (I am not a Googlenaut, and have neither the time nor the inclination to defend every rant with the internet's version of footnotes), I am not so Dogmatic as to deny ever being wrong. It pretty much disgust me when I see this on either side.

I as a rule don't insult people. I think using the terms Wingnut, Asshat, Moonbat, etc., to describe one's political opponents just distracts from the real debate. And for the most part I have managed to stay above it. But there is one thing that just gets to me. Hypocrisy...

During the campaign calling Bush a Nazi or accusing him of fascism, even though such things as loyalty oaths to attend campaign events did merit such comparisons at times, was a declaration of war against the Right, you would be pretty much out of the discussion before it started. Questioning Bush's Military record was also high heresy. Interestingly enough Kerry was called by some of the same people a traitor, a liar, a coward, and worse, and that seemed to be okay.

During the campaign, one of the favorite tools of the Right, was Photoshop. Every week it seemed, there were picture captioning contest. Kerry was made fun of weekly in these contest and I will never forget the ones of him in the Clean Room Suit at NASA that made him look like a big assed Teletubbie. Yesterday I post a funny about Bush Wearing IKE style military jackets, and one of the same people who used to run those Kerry pictures, finds it to be foul and heinous. I don't know what I find funnier, the pictures of Bush wearing his warrior look, or someone who just two months ago was making fun of every Kerry Picture they saw, taking offense to me finding this one so damned funny.

But that's just the point isn't it. There are two sets of rules. We get to play as dirty as we like, when you do the same we will cry foul and insist that you are unreasonable until someone believes it. Aint gonna happen boys….

Now I would be out of line if I did not point out that there are perfectly rational and reasonable conservatives and republicans out there that I dig and respect. People like Boyd and the Commissar, and even Chad and Digger who I am always fighting with, but whom I respect. And there are others who I can and do disagree with on a regular basis, but whom I really like... I think it is a question of maturity. The Conservatives I tend to like and get along with, even in disagreement, are the ones who don't take politics personal…

Originaly Posted December 9th 2004, recovered via Google Cache. I think it is probably appropriate considering the fights I have been in lately.

Introduction
I have wanted to write a book for years. Many issues have contributed to it not happening, primary among them was the discipline to simply sit down and write. Since Starting my Blog, ISOU in October of 2003, I have focused on creating the type of discipline necessary to write daily, and it has helped me in my quest. Then came the issue of topic. What do I write about? Finding a solution to that also helped me to set into motion the plan for this book. My idea was to set a timeframe, and to write whatever I wanted to write within that timeframe. The result was 32 Days of writing madness that attempts to cover some of the most interesting chapters in my own search for utopia. It is raw in some places, and names have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty, but little has been left out. From the Ghetto to the streets of London to the Gentlemen's Clubs of Latin America, join me in my quest for Utopia.

Originaly Published on ISOU in December 2004

Chapter One - Growing up Ghetto
There are times when I look back on my childhood and I am simply amazed that I lived through it all.

I grew up on 73rd and Hoover in Los Angeles. Fifty yards from my house, on the other side of an alley, was an abandoned house called the "Crip Shack." The Crip Shack was the birthplace and "offices," of the notorious Hoover Crips, the nastiest part of the Crip Street gang Alliance made famous in Hollywood films like "Colors."

I went to Jr. High at Mary McLeod Bethune. A couple of my classmates were the founders of the Crips and other less notorious, but equally brutal gangs. In my last year of Jr. High, the school was evacuated on rumors of an impending shootout, and latter that day, the LAPD found enough weapons in a nearby house to arm a platoon of Army Rangers.

In the ninth grade, I was gang jumped by 20 members of the Ace Duces (A Crip Faction), and one of the lesser street gangs who populated the school. I accidentally stepped on the shoe of one of their leaders while in the cafeteria line. I was standing in line waiting for my Government Issue hot lunch, when I stepped backwards and onto the shiny new biscuits (A type of shoe popular at the time) of "Pee Wee," one of the gang leaders. Pee Wee was a short little fuck with a huge afro. Pee Wee dressed the part of the gangster at the time. Silk shirt, pleated pants, leather jacket and biscuits… It was a uniform of sorts for the bangers. And even though all of us did our best to match the style, you could always tell who the real bangers were.

I knew immediately that I had fucked up, and so did every one else in the lunch line. Everyone turned around to see what was going to happen. Even though I knew at that moment that I was fucked, I could not risk coming off like a wimp. "Hey man, I am sorry about that," I mumbled. He looked at me with contempt and hatred, and replied. "Motherfucker you best to be cleaning my biscuits." Now I could have probably saved my self the requisite ass kicking at that point by kneeling down and cleaning the footprint off his shoes, but that was against ghetto code. I knew that if I cleaned his shoe, I might survive the ass kicking that day, but would forever be marked, "a bitch." The ass kicking would simply be delayed. I also knew I would not be able to live with the snickers I would get from that day on, so I signed my own ass kicking warrant at that moment and responded. "Fuck your biscuits." I dropped my tray and walked away. I missed lunch, but my major concern at that point was finding a place to hide until lunch was over.

My confrontation with Pee Wee was the talk of the school for the rest of the day. I hid out at the next break, and watched the clock with a knot in my stomach the rest of the day. I knew that at 3:00 I had an appointment with Pee Wee and his boys. When the bell rang, I hauled ass for the street with my boy Otis, who was my best friend at the time. We were halfway up the block when I saw Pee Wee. He was standing on the corner, half a block away with a small army of guys, most of whom I did not even recognize. I turned to Otis... "Bruh, this ain’t your fight," I heard myself say. "Bail and see if you can find my big brother. I am gonna get my ass kicked, ain’t no need for you to get yours kicked too." Otis looked relieved as he took off running. If I was expecting the Calvary to come to my rescue, it didn't happen. My house was over a mile away, even if Otis had went looking for my Brother... Which he didn't. I ducked into an alley 20 yards from Pee Wee and his gang, hoping they did not see me in the crowd of kids leaving the school. As I turned into the alley I began to trot. Not exactly run, just kind of jog. Just as I was beginning to think I had escaped, there was a tap on my shoulder….

"Yo homeboy," I heard a voice say. "Someone is calling you." I then felt the blow. Then they converged. I don't to this day know how many there were. All I know is I was swinging wildly, not connecting very often, and they were... Big time. I remember going down in the alley, and biscuits, lots of biscuits kicking me everywhere. I rolled into a fetal ball trying to protect myself, and then I heard the siren.

I must have blacked out. The next thing I remember was being in the Vice Principals office with a couple of cops, Pee Wee and the VP.

I remember my face hurt, and so did other parts of my body. In fact, it would be easier to say what did not hurt.

I was a little nervous about coming back to school the next day, especially since I was black and blue all over, with my eye practically swollen shut. I figured best case scenario is that I would get clowned by everyone who saw me get my ass kicked in that alley. I latter found out that the audience to my ass kicking included my dear buddy Otis. To my surprise, I found out I was somewhat of a hero at school after that day. The consensus seemed to be that I had stood up to the gangsters. Even though I lost the fight, I had won respect. "Damn homeboy, you got yo assed whupped, but you went down swingin'," was a a typical comment. Even the gangsters seemed to give me a little more respect after that day...

It was not easy growing up where I did. The gang culture was all around me. 73rd and Hoover was in the middle of a battle zone. Crips, Brims (Latter immortalized as Bloods in the movies), Ace Duce's and Bounty Hunters, battled amongst themselves and with the Police of the notorious 77th Division, for the streets of my neighborhood. And the cops were little more than a street gang themselves, terrorizing the neighborhood and brutalizing anyone they saw as a potential threat. 77th Division would latter become the subject of a number of criminal investigations, including planting weapons on shooting victims and falsifying arrest records. I would have my own run in with them while I lived there. More on that later.

Most of the guys who founded the Crips came from my neighborhood.

One of the original founders was a guy named Leo. Leo was a small stature, light skinned, good looking black kid, who had a lot of natural intelligence and leadership. Unfortunately, he chose to apply it to all the wrong things.

Leo was a God Father in the Crips, one of the main leaders, and for some reason he liked me. He used to send me on errands to buy him and his boys junk food. My little crew and I would be playing softball or football on the abandoned lot next to the Crip shacks and Leo would call me over. I don't think he ever knew my name. It was always, "Hey fatboy, com'ere." I would hustle over and Leo would roll off a wad of bills and send me off to the liquor store to buy him something. He would always give me a dollar for myself. And even though he joked about me being a fat kid in front of his boys, he always treated me kindly.

Leo became a major drug dealer, and in the end broke the cardinal rule of dealing. He started using his own product. I started to notice that his eyes had a glazed, faraway look, and he started to scare me. One night I was on my way home and passed the Crip Shacks to cut through the alley and head home. From the darkness of the shack I heard Leo’s voice. "Hey Fatboy, come’ere." I hesitated, but knew I had better do what he said. Leo was not the kind of guy you never wanted to piss off. I climbed up into the ruined house and looked around in the darkness. Leo was sitting in a corner smoking a joint. "Come over here kid," he said. I walked over to where he was sitting. He held the joint up to me. "You want a hit?" I shook my head no.. He laughed. "Go ahead, take a hit. It aint nothin' but weed, lil nigga. It aint gonna kill ya." I nervously took the joint, and took a feeble hit on it, not even inhaling. He laughed. "Nigga that aint no way to smoke a joint. Suck that mutha fucka!" I tried again, inhaling deeply this time. The weed burned my throat and made me feel dizzy. Leo stumbled to his feet. "That’s it homey. Suck on that thang." I handed the joint back to him. He took a deep drag, and I could see that weird look in his eyes, even in the darkness. The moon shined in through the holes in the roof and walls, giving his face and eyes a weird glow.

He looked at me for a long time, taking drags on his weed. "I want you to do something for me lil’ nigga," he said. I don't want you to tell nobody though. "What," I asked. He reached down and unzipped his pants. "I want you to suck my dick." I stepped back towards the hole in the wall I had come in through. "I cant do that Leo," I stuttered. "I aint no fag!" He laughed. "I know you aint no fag, fatboy. But aint nobody going to know. Just me an you... Think of all the shit I done done for you!" I was feeling panic rising in my gut. Leo had killed people. Lots of them, if the stories were to be believed. Now he was telling me to suck his dick. If I did it, I was fucked. It would be all over the block by the next day. If I didn't do it, he might just kill me. I was getting sick at the thought...

"Leo," I pleaded. "You aint no fag. You are Leo, the baddest mutha fucker in the Crips. What it gonna look like, people hear you got boys suckin' your dick." He seemed to think about this for a minute, and then as quickly as it started, it was over. He put his dick back in his pants, zipped up and laughed his ass off. "I knew you weren’t no fag, lil' nigga. I just had to be sure. He reached in his pocked and peeled a twenty dollar bill off his bankroll. He handed it to me, and told me to get, "the fuck out my house." I practically ran out of that house that night. I made it a point to avoid the place for a few months after that. Then about three months latter I heard Leo had been shot dead in a driveby. I don't know if Leo intended to rape me that night or not, I would like to think it was just a test like he said... But I will never know. I was 10 Years old at the time...

There was another Crip Founder who grew up with me too. His name was Phillip. Phillip was a super cool, laid back thinker... I never saw Phillip in a fight. While Leo was known to be a hard case and a cold blooded murderer who handled his "set," through strength and intimidation, Phillip was known as a smart leader. He rarely lost his cool, and led by the strength of his intellect, and pure charisma. Phillip and I met when my 7th grade English Teacher asked me to tutor him. We formed a friendship that would last until he was sent to jail a year latter.

Phillip was always well dressed, sharp and smooth. They used to call him a Junior Pimp, and the girls adored him. At 14, Phillip was probably getting laid more than Hugh Heffner, and he was just as cool. Phillip always called me David. He respected me, and he protected me. He was kind of like a Black version of the Fonz, and everyone knew that if you hung out with Phillip, you weren't to be fucked with. I never saw him using drugs, or even drinking. When he was around his "set," or his boys, there was no question who was in charge. Although it may sound strange considering how much I liked Phillip, I am glad he went to jail when he did. If he had not, I would have probably ended up a Crip...

I was the tenth of ten children. Most of my siblings had already grown up and left the nest when I came along.

I was the miracle baby, born when my mother was 42 years old and my father in his late 50's. I was not expected and not planned for. But I was loved... Perhaps even more than my siblings, I was loved. I was my mother's baby. Though we were poor by most people's standards, my mother did everything she could to give me the best she could offer. Other than the occasional hand me down clothes, I pretty much got what I wanted as a kid. I was spoiled. I was the baby. In return I was expected to bring home good grades, go to church on Sunday, and be a, "good boy." I fulfilled most of that obligation for my first 15 years, even joining the Boy Scouts, something that took a lot of courage in one of the most violent neighborhoods in Los Angeles. (Just walking down the street in a Scout Uniform could get you an ass kicking by the Gangsters). At the time I was trying hard to be like my war hero Brother, who I worshiped more than the God I visited on Sundays. It was my Big Brother Thomas, the Vietnam War veteran, who saved my ass the one time I did cross paths with the Thugs in Blue from 77th Street Division, LAPD.

I was selling candy for my mother's church when I was stopped by one of the police Anti-Gang units. They were called, "Team 2," and they were notorious in the ghetto at that time. I heading home after a day of selling candy door to door for my mother's church when a Team Two car pulled up onto the sidewalk in front of us. The driver called me over to the car. "Hey Fat Boy, get your black ass over here," the cop said. I was with three other friends and we all walked over to the patrol car. "What you got in the bag Nigger?" the cop asked. "I ain't no nigger, cop." I said in my most defiant "ghetto," voice. The driver opened the door of the patrol car and he and his partner stepped out. "We got us a smartass here," he said to his partner, who just shook his head. "I asked you a question boy," he said, taking his shades off as he stepped up within a foot or so of where I was standing.

My parents always admonished me to be respectful of cops and I generally was, but here this guy was harassing me when I was actually doing something good for a change. I was not going to have it. It did not help that all of us in the neighborhood had recently come under the influence of Brother Charles X, a Muslim shopkeeper who sold cookies, candy and the radical black muslim theology of "the evils of whitey." I was in no mood to be interrogated by this, "white devil," and I figured I was in the right, so "fuck 'em." I looked the cop in the eye and answered him. "I know my rights Mr. Police officer man... I ain't done nothin' wrong. I am selling candy for my mama's church, so why don't you pigs leave me alone."

The next thing I knew I was slammed against the Police Cruiser, and being frisked. The cop took the bag with the candy, and the money I had collected that day. “Listen you little fat bastard, I know you stole the candy, so we are going to confiscate it.” He took the bag from my hand, and told me to move on. I stood there, not believing that a cop had just, “stole,” a bag of candy from a kid on the street. My friends were standing back on the curb. Bunch, one of my best buddies at the time, started ragging on me. “Yo mama gonna whup yo ass David,” he said. I knew at that point that I had two options. I was either going to take an ass kicking from these two cops or from my Mama... And to be honest, I was a helluva lot more afraid of my Mama at that moment. You did not mess with my mama when it came to the church. I stepped between the cop and his car. "Look man," I said. "You are just going to have to arrest me. I know I ain't done nothing wrong. And I ain't going home without that candy and the money those people done paid me." The cop laughed. "Have it your way boy." He grabbed me by the shoulder, spun me around against the car, and slapped the cuffs on me... I was shoved roughly into the back of the police car, and whisked away, as my friends stood laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

I sat on a low bench in the police station for over an hour before my mother and her Pastor showed up at the police station. I could hear them talking to the Desk Sergeant outside the holding area. The cop was telling them how I resisted arrest and how they were going to hold me for questioning in a gang matter. No matter how much my mother pleaded and the good Reverend admonished, the Sergeant just "dissed" them. Finally I heard them leave. The Sergeant came back to see me at that point. I was cuffed to a low bench in a smelly, hot room. I guess he could tell I was afraid. "Did you really think your mama and, "Reverend Ike," were gonna get your ass out of the trouble you are in boy?" He asked me, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Now if you had just kept your mouth shut and not argued with the officers, you would be home having dinner right now." He laughed and walked out of the room. Seems like hours passed, but I am sure it wasn't that long. Suddenly, I heard my older Brother Thomas speaking to the Desk Sargeant. "You got a kid here named David Anderson?" he asked. "Who's asking," replied the desk Sergeant. "The man who came to get him out," replied my brother. "And what the fuck makes you think you are going to have any more luck than his mama, or the "Reverend Doctor Feel Good." Replied the cop.

I will never forget my Brother's reply. "Because my Mother and the Reverend did not just spend three years working for the U.S. Government killing people for a living. And because if you mother fuckers don't let my little brother go in the next five minutes, you are going to have to explain why you arrest a kid for selling candy for the church, and why you killed a decorated Vietnam Vet who just came here to get his baby brother out of jail. Cause if I leave here without David, when I come back, I am going to declare war on you mother fuckers." I heard the cop say something I could not make out, and the next thing I know, my Brother and I are in his car driving home. The bag of candy and cash were sitting on the seat between us. Fucking cops had even paid for the couple of boxes of candy they had taken from the bag. My brother never said a word on the drive home. We pulled into the driveway, he patted me on the head, leaned over me and opened the door. I wanted to say, "thank you." I wanted to tell him how much I loved him. I wanted to tell him that he was my hero. I didn't say anything. I wish I had...

That was the last run in I ever had with the cops, except for the couple times I was pulled over for moving violations... Yeah, life in the Ghetto in the 70's was a hoot... Good Times and JJ Walker didn't have shit on the Anderson family. But things would only get more interesting...

Two weeks in the freakin' Wilderness, but Daddy's home! Hot Damn! First off, thanks for everyone who stayed on me about not letting ISOU die. Your thoughts and encouragement are appreciated.

But more than ANYONE, I have to thank Rogue. I have got to be one of the luckiest people in the world to have you as a friend. Most people who know our history together would be even more shocked that we are so close, but I love ya, and I always will. You are the kind of generous, kind and loving person that we all should strive to be like.

This has been a humbling experience for me, having my Blog knocked off the air by a very unscrupulous and cowardly person, who obviously did not pay our hosting bill, and who to this day, has not had the balls or the decency to even answer my phone calls. Whatever.... Karma is a Mutha, and I suspect that he will get hit with a MASSIVE Karma bomb in due time. In the interim, my lawyer will track him down.

I am happy as hell to be back, and look forward to rebuilding the blog.

One Love Everyone, and drop a guy some linky love, we need it.

Okay, a couple of people who were not in on the email about what happened to ISOU have asked so let me fill you in...

The Following email was recieved from the asswhipe who was responsible for hosting my site. He finaly responded after my site was down for 24 hours. I gave him every chance to talk to me about it, even after he sent me this email:

----Original Message----- From: Josue Salazar [mailto: josue.salazar@gmail.com] Sent: Wednesday, April 27, 2005 6:52 PM To: David Scott Anderson Subject: Re: Very Concerned

Hi David.

I am extremely sorry about this.

I am going to be honest with you, it's the least i can do.

We pay a datacenter monthly for the server.
I have been offline most of the time for the past weeks due to family
problems. And while i understand how this is none of your business and
is not acceptable, i just want to let you know what happened.
I was in the hospital from last sunday until yesterday night, i stayed
in Turrialba for the night, and without internet or my cellphone which
is not working at the moment.
Yesterday night, the Datacenter took the server down, and formatted
it. To this point, i don't understand why they did such a thing. But
it's what they did.
The backup drive was also formatted.

In other words, there is no data we can restore. We will be getting a
new couple of servers in another datacenter in the next few days, but
it will be a blank start.

This is completely devastating, unprofessional, unlucky, and i
understand my reputation is now pretty much gone. I'm sorry about
that.

What i recommend you do right now, is you go and get a hosting account
at another provider, (www.dreamhost.com is higly recommended), update
your nameservers, and upload a backup of your site, if you have one,
if not, as bad as it sounds, put some kind of notice to your visitors.
Then send me the bills and i will pay them for you, besides refunding
the money you paid me.

I really wish i could be of more help, but this situation has pretty
much killed my business, and i'm left without options as to what to
do.

About Pension Santa Elena, Ran sent me $300 on friday. I had asked him
for less, but i did ask him since my laptop had died and i needed some
money to repair it. He was cool and sent me half of the final price. I
told him i would show him a first version of the website on sunday.
The very sunday i was hospitalized.
I completely understand how you may want to cancel the contract i made
with them. I only ask for a couple of weeks to get the $300 to
transfer it back to them.
If on the other hand, for some reason, you still want me to finish it,
i will gladly do it, and probably not charge another dollar for it.
It's your call, since you're the one who hired me.

I am sincerely sorry. And i appreciate your trust, and i know after
this, you will probably won't want anything to do with me.

I will be back online in a couple of hours.

Again, this pretty much killed my business, and i will be seeking
legal action against Managed.com (the datacenter) in the following
weeks.

Now the thing that pains me is that the coward has refused to answer my phone calls and is basically hiding behind his girlfriend or whatever and not coming to the phone. He has not responded to any additional emails and has basically stolen my hosting fee, and a $300 deposit for web site development from a client of mine.

Now he thinks I will forget this. I WILL NOT. I have Grupo Utopia's attorney working on the issue, and may soon get police involved as well.

(DELETED ON ROGUES ADVICE)

A couple of months ago I recommended CA+ as a great way to get in touch with what is going on in business in Central America. The Newspaper continues to impress me with the depth and clarity of its coverage of the region. I read this article today about an idea to create a sort of Economic European Region in the area. It makes an interesting read.

The process of Central American regionalization is occurring daily, as individual companies overcome the problems of small local markets by disregarding national borders and selling goods and services to a consumer base of 30 million people.

The regionalization of institutions will take longer, as shown by the apparent collapse of the Plan Pueblo Panama.

An ambitious program initially promoted by Mexican president Vicente Fox in 2001 as a way of linking his country's economically-troubled southern states with Central America, the PPP promised investments of as much as $10 billion in major infrastructure development, including modern highways and an energy corridor stretching from the Mexican city of Puebla as far as the Panama Canal.

In theory, the plan made sense. With Northern Mexico increasingly looking to the United States and Canada as investment and trade partners, stronger links between Central America and Southern Mexico could generate economic growth in both regions.

In the real world, however, the PPP was poorly thought through.

Southern Mexico is a major generator of hydroelectric power. But production costs are not much cheaper than those in Central America.

The isthmus is becoming increasingly important as a tourism destination. But few Southern Mexicans can afford a golf excursion. As for ecological tourism, they don’t need to leave home to enjoy it.

Since both Southern Mexico and Central America are mainly agricultural economies, greater integration between them is not likely to yield big gains.

The size of local markets is something I struggle with daily in running my own business. While this initiative may have failed, I very much look forward to the continuing evolution of local markets, which is taking place on a company by company basis, with Grupo Utopia being one of the leaders in driving technology in the region.

Note: I had an interesting breakfast meeting this morning with the Publisher of CA+, one of several I have had recently. He is the same person who publishes La Republica, my favorite Costa Rican newspaper. I have been an unofficial Technology Adviser, to La Republica for a couple years now. We may be finalizing something for me to work more directly with the two publications on their web versions in particular. It is an exciting development, because I consider La Republica to be THE BEST Business newspaper in Central America, and CA+ to be a compelling opportunity to present the business news of the entire region.

We are planning another sit down on Tuesday, will keep you all posted.

From The Map, when I got nuked a couple of weeks ago?

Originaly posted by Zen Comix on April 25, 2005

Can the NY Times run a disclaimer informing their readers that they're sucking the right wing's collective cock? Fucking honestly, why are they running a story about right wing bloggers accusing the Associated Press of being in bed with the terrorists? Why is this considered news? And if they have to run a story on it, can they at least get their facts straight?

For example, here's the caption they gave to this photo:

Some conservative bloggers contend The Associated Press was complicit in taking this photograph of the slaying of an Iraqi election worker. The A.P. strongly denies that.

What's wrong here? Well, let me make a couple corrections. First: "Some conservative bloggers contend" WITHOUT ANY PROOF WHATSOEVER. Second: "The A.P. strongly denies that" BY PROVIDING INFORMATION ABOUT HOW THE PHOTO WAS TAKEN, WHICH THE RIGHT WING BLOGGERS HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO DEBUNK.

Oh, I'm sorry, if they made those corrections then the Times wouldn't have had a story.

Yet the rabid dickheads at Power Line and elsewhere will still claim that this is an example of the "liberal media." I guess for the right wants to NY Times to swallow before granting them their approval.

...Salon has more.

Originaly posted by Tas on April 12th, 2005

Thanks to Shylah, who meticulously pulled down everything she could from Google's cache, there is a lot of good material salvaged. I have created a new category called ISOU Classic. I will be posting a lot of the material in that category, and when it is from one of the guest bloggers giving them attribution at the end.

Hey guys.... Thanks for sticking with me.

Ron continues to cover Gannongate with a great new angle, Jeff Gannon, Master of Plagerism! This is must read stuff!

The Raw story has a great interview with a journalist Mr. Gannon ripped off.

A Massachusetts newspaper reporter and her then-editor have accused former White House correspondent 'Jeff Gannon' of plagiarizing an article at which the reporter was the only media witness, RAW STORY has learned.

The alleged plagiarism was discovered by blogger Ron Brynaert, who has tracked other plagiarism by Gannon and various Talon News correspondents at his blog, WhyAreWeBackInIraq.

A Jun. 17, 2003 article published by Jim Guckert, who wrote under the pen name Jeff Gannon, contains numerous identical quotes and similar phrasing to an article written by Melissa Beecher for the Waltham Daily News Tribune five days earlier. A comparison of the two articles compiled by Brynaert follows.

In the article about a Massachusetts couple who refused to let their home-schooled children take a standardized test, Guckert used quotes identical to Beecher's article without attribution. Beecher was the only reporter in attendance at the couple's home the day the Department of Social Services came to collect the children.

Guckert did not respond to two email requests for comment.

The accusations by Beecher-and her editor-are sure to raise concern about Guckert's selection for a National Press Club event Apr. 8 titled, "What is a Journalist," and draw new attention to two paragraphs Guckert copied verbatim from the Associated Press in April, 2003. Both Beecher and her editor were shocked to hear the Guckert would be a panelist.

Beecher, who now writes for the Salem News, said she remembered the story Guckert apparently copied from vividly.

"I remember this particular story so vividly because of the people that were involved," Beecher told RAW STORY. "I had to wake up in the morning at six o'clock in the morning to get there at 6:15 because I had to be there when DSS arrived."

"I do understand that major papers use the smaller papers as a way to get their news to know what's going on in some of these smaller communities," she added, "but when direct quotes are used without attribution it's not acceptable. Good reporters don't do that. It's upsetting to see that a nationally-recognized personality would."

Beecher says she was the only reporter at the event.

Read Both Pieces, I am pleased to see Ron getting the attention he deserves for his awesome investigative work.

Originaly Posted March 31st

There's good and bad news concerning the genocide in Darfur. The good news is that I've noticed increased coverage of it in the MSM recently. The New York Times had four pieces on Darfur last week, and the Boston Globe also ran an op/ed piece by Eric Reeves.

Unfortunately, that's about it for the good news.

Deputy Secretary of State Robert B. Zoellick's trip to Sudan last week has signaled a shift -- regression -- in US foreign policy towards Sudan as hesistates to call it genocide. This is despite a high end death toll estimate of 650,000, not to mention the ongoing gangrapings, displacement of over 2 million refugees, poisoning of wells, and theft of the land (which, surprise surprise, has the potential to pump out 500,000 barrels of oil a day).

The refugees of Darfur are in need of food, especially before the rainy season starts in July, but the UN World Food Program has been forced to cut rations due to lack of funding. Worse yet, the attacks against international aid workers are climbing.

There's nobody to protect these aidworkers, or the people of Darfur, because the UN does not have a single peacekeeper in Darfur. The few peacekeepers that the African Union has in the region are relegated to filing reports after crimes happen since they don't have a mandate to protect Darfuri and aid workers by engaging the Janjaweed, and whatever elements of the Sudanese military who are helping them, in combat.

In the meantime, even though the Sudanese government provided arms and support (along with direct intervention, like using their air force to bomb Darfur villages) to the Janjaweed militia which continues to terror the people of Darfur, the world continues to attempt to work with Khartoum like they aren't part of the problem. The international community has listened to President Bashir claim that he can handle the Darfur crisis for the past two years, and during that time the bodies keep piling up. Who is finally going to call bullshit on this sham government?

There are two things you can do to help: Inform and donate.

The Darfur Accountability Act could possibly come up for a vote in the Senate this week. Click here to tell your senator to support S.495.

For donations, there are plenty of places where your money could go. I've picked out three to advertise:

* Save the Children
* Care USA
* Doctors Without Borders

Besides simplification, the reason I pick these three are because of the most pressing problems currently facing Darfur. Care USA focuses on delivering food, which is badly needed. With Save the Children, that's self-explanatory. And Doctors Without Borders is on the list because of the women and children in Darfur who need the most help. And, indeed, it's them who are the biggest victims of this genocide. The women who have survived have suffered brutal and repeated gangrapings, along with the medical complications and pregnancies that come with such crimes. In many instances, these women are shunned from their communities or are left to be the sole provider for their families if their husband is murdered. Out of any of Darfur's victims, the women need the most help, and Doctors Without Borders focuses on them.

I put my money where my mouth is last week and donated $100 each to these three organizations. This decision was helped by looking at my tax refund and seeing what I could afford, which explains the timing part of why I'm posting these donations links. Anything you can give will help.

To keep up with Darfur news, Coalition for Darfur and The Passion of the Present are great blogs to goto. I also keep an archive of my Darfur coverage at darfur.loadedmouth.com, where it has a bit more... Errr, attitude? Yes, that's the right word.

Posted by Tas on 4/19

Ann Coulter is on the cover of Time Magazine this week. Coulter is so very 2003. I don't get why someone so passe' would make their cover. But it's their magazine..they can pollute it however they choose.

Coulter's stirred a lot of crap in her day. Pretty much all of it about liberals. Here's a few of her gems:

Liberals have a preternatural gift for striking a position on the side of treason. You could be talking about Scrabble and they would instantly leap to the anti-American position. Everyone says liberals love America, too. No they don't. Whenever the nation is under attack, from within or without, liberals side with the enemy.-Excerpt from Treason, Coulter's love song to McCarthyism.

"When contemplating college liberals, you really regret once again that John Walker is not getting the death penalty. We need to execute people like John Walker in order to physically intimidate liberals, by making them realize that they can be killed, too. Otherwise, they will turn out to be outright traitors." Coulter, Conservative Political Action Conference, January 2002

Whether they are defending the Soviet Union or bleating for Saddam Hussein, liberals are always against America. They are either traitors or idiots, and on the matter of America's self-preservation, the difference is irrelevant.--Ann Coulter

What does it really mean to be a patriot? What does "pro-American" really look like?

Tell me in comments what being a patriot means to you.

Originaly Posted by Carla on 4/19

...and for that, my apologies.

This is Jack of Random Fate, a blog that David has been kind enough to link to with more frequency than I likely merit given his readership. I am also a guest-poster at the increasingly prominent blog The Moderate Voice, filling in when Joe Gandelman is unable to post due to concerns involving that pesky "real world" we all have to deal with.

To emulate Juliette in her full disclosure self-introduction, I am a self-described slightly left leaning centrist. David once asked me to join his Progressive Blog Alliance (sorry, link broken), but I was not able to because I have many views that do not align with what I feel is the Progressive agenda.

However, I strive to avoid channelling all my thought into ideological paths.

As a consequence, I have been called a right-winger by those on the left, and a left-winger by those on the right. It has been said that if everyone dislikes your solutions, you must be onto something good, but somehow that is cold comfort when you are dodging rocks thrown from both sides.

Although I am an expatriate in France and in a different time zone, I hope I am able to do my bit to keep David's blog alive and well during his absence while remaining true to my contrary nature of challenging any and all assertions to absolute truth.

Posted by Jack at 05:27 PM | Comments (1)
Filed under Guest Bloggers
Politics should not be a Death Match

There are still issues that are unrelated to the actions of men dressed in red who chose the new leader of the Roman Catholic Church.

One of those issues is the state of partisanship within the government of the sole world superpower, the United States.

In the not-so-distant past, members of the United States Congress would see beyond their differences to a larger responsibility towards the nation as a whole, not towards one particular constituency, understanding that the United States was and is a nation of many people with many views, and one view cannot dominate to the exclusion of all others.

Currently, however, those who have been elected to lead in Congress have forgotten that principle, and instead seem to think that complete and total destruction of any who think differently is the only acceptable option to appease their constituency.

Or, as I put it in a post at Random Fate:

The old aphorism, "Is this any way to run a railroad?" seems to apply here.

BOTH parties, BOTH wings, have reverted to zero-sum tactics in a non-zero-sum game.

We are all trapped in a Prisoner's Dilemma with fools playing a zero-sum game.

As I have said repeatedly, we ALL have to live together, or balkanize and become as weak as the nation-states in that tragic region.

Do we really want to continue down the path of mutual destruction?

Originaly Posted by Jack on 4/19

There's a new threat facing our nation, especially our nation's youth, and it's time the government did something about it. You've heard about the obesity crisis, the dangers of tobacco and second-hand smoke, how guns cause crime, and the unimaginable danger of riding a bicycle without a helmet. But I bet you haven't heard about how dangerous one particular item--one you likely have sitting around your home, completely unguarded--can be to you, your family, and the American Way of Life.

It's time the word got out about the new enemy: Bread!
Research on bread indicates that:

1. More than 98 percent of convicted felons are bread users.
2. Fully HALF of all children who grow up in bread-consuming households score below average on standardized tests.
3. In the 18th century, when virtually all bread was baked in the home, the average life expectancy was less than 50 years; infant mortality rates were unacceptably high; many women died in childbirth; and diseases such as typhoid, yellow fever, and influenza ravaged whole nations.
4. More than 90 percent of violent crimes are committed within 24 hours of eating bread.
5. Bread is made from a substance called "dough." It has been proven that as little as one pound of dough can be used to suffocate a mouse. The average American eats more bread than that in one month!

12. Most American bread eaters are utterly unable to distinguish between significant scientific fact and meaningless statistical babbling.

Write your Senator! Alert your Congressman! Stop the presses, call your lawyer, and prepare to join in the biggest class-action lawsuit in history as we finally put the demonic corporate bread cabal out of business and in to jail where these criminals belong!

Originaly posted by Beck

We have been trying to establish a relationship with HP for over a year now. Tonight we had a great meeting with members of HP's Latin American Management Team and are exploring an important strategic relationship. I want to thank Mateo Figueroa, HP's Sales Manager for Central America and the Caribbean for his enthusiastic response to our ideas, and acknowledgment of Grupo Utopia's unique position in the Costa Rican Market Place. I look forward to a long and mutually beneficial relationship and to promoting HP's solutions in the region.

Posted by ME, on March 20th

The New York Times reported of two 16 year-old girls that were detained because of a report that they are potential suicide bombers. The Immigration and Customs Enforcement told Reuters that the case is strickly an immigration matter. If that is so the why did the federal government have a judge issue a gag order on the case.

The girls are from Bangladesh and Guinea. Teachers at Heritage High School were outraged. Teacher Kimberly Lane said of the Guinean girl: ""This is a girl who's been in this country since she was 2 years old. She's just a regular teenager - like, two weeks ago her biggest worry was whether she'd done her homework or studied for a science test."

New York Times reporter Nina Bernstein tells NPR's Day To Day that the Bangladeshi girl had become a devote Muslim and was (maybe) involved with a young Muslim man. Her father thought she ran away and notified the authorities. The father felt this may have set off the whole chain of events. The other girl was popular and ran for student council in her school. Bernstein said the girls did not go to school together and no one is even sure if they knew each other.

The blog Detainment is covering this story as it develops.

(Crossposted at Last Day of My Life)

Posted by Michael on 4/19

College Boy

In my final year at Metro there was a lot of pressure on me to choose a University. I got the feeling constantly that I was a “star,” a success story, and that my accession to a major University was a sort of example to the other students. Elise Slifkin was particularly interested in helping me, and she offered to help me gain entry to UCLA. My opinion of the whole thing? I was scared. I did not feel I was ready to go to a Major University. I didn’t believe my experiences at Metro, or with L.A.’s public School System had prepared me for University Life. I made a decision that would change my life once again…

I arrived at L.A. Southwest College in September of 1978. LASC was built on the ashes of the Watts Riots. It was one of those places City Fathers liked to point to as an example of progress in the Ghetto. Just a mile or so from Washington High School, LASC was supposed to be a bright shining star in the neighborhood. To some it was. When I first saw it, it reminded me of what the infamous Maginot Line in Pre World War II France must have looked like. It consisted of four buildings sitting on top of a hill, and some older prefab building that resembled aircraft hangers on the lower campus. The main buildings were multi storied concrete affairs with tinted windows that resembled slots in fortress wall. The building had the look of a fortress. I guess someone decided that if there were more riots, this was one place that would not burn.

There was a big practice football field, but no gym and grass was sparse. It was not what I imagined college would be like. I enrolled with a Journalism Major, and my first day in class, I got a big surprise. I walked into the journalism department and came face to face with an old friend… Well at least an acquaintance… Jeff Sneed was a guy I knew in Jr. High School back in my Bethune days. He was smart, athletic, and had the kind of looks girls drooled over. If you can remember Dr. J, Julius Irving of the Philadelphia 76ers, then you have an idea of what Jeff looked like. Jeff was the kind of guy who was so good looking even guys said he was good looking. “Yo man, don't I know you,” I said, upon encountering him. He looked at me and smiled. “Yeah man, we went to school together at Bethune.” I laughed, “No shit. Small world. So you are studying Journalism too?” He nodded his head, and we started to rap. That was the first day of a friendship that would last for years to come. Jeff and I would become best friends, competitors and eventually enemies. But neither of us knew this at that moment, and we were both just happy to see someone we knew in a new place.

Life at LASC was interesting. It was the first time in my life where I did not have to go to school. I was an adult now, and going to class was a choice, not an obligation. My father died in February of 1978 of complications from cancer, and I was pretty much on my own at that point. Leti and I had broken up over the summer, and I was flying solo. LASC was a good choice for me. I don't think my head was on right to be starting UCLA at that particular time in my life.

When we arrived at LASC, the journalism program had a new professor, Mark Day, a 30-something writer of some note, who was a kind of social activist. Mark was as Liberal as they came. A Jewish dude who was obviously suffering from “Liberal Guilt,” and who gave us way too much damned control over the campus paper. Truthfully, Mark seemed to be a bit intimidated by us. Especially Nita, the reigning editor of the paper when I arrived. Nita was this tough little black chick with a short afro, tight body and even tighter jeans, he he… She would have been “tight,” if not for the fact that she had a so-s0 face, and the butch haircut gave her a quasi lesbian look in my eyes at the time. She was also a bitch at times, but she was a good writer, if not that great an editor. It was the campus paper that gave me the sense of mission to get up everyday and go to school, even when I didn’t have to, and I jumped in with a passion. By the end of the first Semester, Nita was out. She and Mark had gone at it on more than one occasion, and she did not hesitate to play to race/sex card. If she didn’t get what she wanted, it was, “You just don't respect a woman Mark.” Or “You just can’t handle a strong black woman Mark.” Mark had his issues, but any objective observer could tell the man was bending over backwards to be accommodating. I was named Executive Editor of the paper the second Semester, and began a program to improve the quality of the paper. Jeff was named Managing Editor, and we began a partnership that would last for years.

We completely scrapped the look and feel of the paper, and executed a new design. We added a cartoonist, hired an old retired man from the neighborhood to sell advertisement for the paper. We grew the paper from four pages to eight and eventually to twelve. We broadened the scope of the paper to cover community events, movie reviews and strong editorial content, which was my focus. And the paper started to get noticed. If the first year was about “evolution,” the second year would be “revolutionary.” I didn’t date much while at LASC. The paper was my lady, and I really didn’t have time for much of a social life.

The one person I did hang with in my two years at LASC was Cheryl, believe it or not, the Captain of the Cheerleader squad. Cheryl was this Big, leggy, big chested, honey colored black girl, with a beautiful smile and a fun loving nature. We were never really, “official,” but we went out a couple of times. I think the reason Cheryl dug me was because I was not intimidated by her. She was a big girl, tall, athletic and strong. And she was aggressive. I think most of the Brothers at LASC were intimidated by her, although I don't think too many would have hesitated play quarterback/cheerleader captain with her. The truth was, I wanted her sexually, but she did not really turn me on intellectually. Perhaps that is why I never put too much effort into moving the relationship forward.

Since I wasn’t focusing on dating, I took the time to improve my writing, and to focus on winning the paper some respect. During the second semester we attended a regional Conference for journalism students. During the conference we met students from all over Southern California, but made friends with one group in particular, Golden West College. Golden West was a Junior College located in the heart of Orange County, probably one of the most conservative, and “whitest,” counties in all of Southern California. We could not have been more different our two schools, and yet we hit if off. We spend two days partying with them at the conference hotel, and on the second day of the conference, we took our first award in school history. We were awarded Best Small College Newspaper in Southern California. It was a tremendous honor, and a validation of all the hard work we had put in improving the paper. That weekend was about buzz, and the buzz was that there was a new player on the scene, and that our program would get some recognition out of it. Mark Day took the opportunity to use the award as a resume booster, and took a job at a more prestigious school. We really didn’t care. Mark had very little to do with the success of the paper anyway. My last words to him… “Fuck you Mark.”

Mark was replaced by Jack Matcha, a someone famous writer from Hollywood. Jack had written for the, “Good Times,” TV show, and was as good they get in writing fundamentals. Jack was old… Very Old, when he came to teach at LASC. He was this little hunched over man who walked with a cane, suffered from the worst dandruff I have ever seen, and had nose hairs that looked like a freakin’ forest. It was hard looking at the old dude, but damn could he teach!

Jack was a little conservative at times, but he mostly stayed out of the way and let us do our thing. By my third semester at LASC, the paper was generating enough ad revenue to pay for itself. We were making a difference. The paper was respected in the community, recognized by the student journalism community, and important enough to the school that I actually felt like I had a little bit of clout. It was 1979 and Disco was all the rage. I like most people my age, were Donna Summer Fans, and I actually got an interview with the Disco Diva. Unfortunately I never got to meet her in person, but I submitted a list of questions and she answered them. I also learned it was good to be a journalist, even a student one. I got to attend a number of concerts, movie premiers and what not, with a press pass. It was pretty cool shit.

Jeff and I worked hand in hand on the paper, but there were occasional clashes of egos. There finally came a time when I had to tell him that I was the boss, and that our friendship had nothing to do with business. It was an uncomfortable conversation, but one that needed to be had. We would not have another conflict like that one for a couple of years.

In our last semester, we attended the State Journalism Conference. This time we would not win best paper. But we didn’t totally wash out. I won an award for Best Sports Feature Story, and we received much acclaim as one of the best college papers in the State. Jeff and I both applied to the University of Southern California and were accepted that Spring. Neither of us were accepted into the Journalism Program as there were no slots available. We both decided to study Political Science. In may of 1980, I graduated and began the adventure of my life.

Saved via Google Cache

In my final year at Metro there was a lot of pressure on me to choose a University. I got the feeling constantly that I was a “star,” a success story, and that my accession to a major University was a sort of example to the other students. Elise Slifkin was particularly interested in helping me, and she offered to help me gain entry to UCLA. My opinion of the whole thing? I was scared. I did not feel I was ready to go to a Major University. I didn’t believe my experiences at Metro, or with L.A.’s public School System had prepared me for University Life. I made a decision that would change my life once again…

I arrived at L.A. Southwest College in September of 1978. LASC was built on the ashes of the Watts Riots. It was one of those places City Fathers liked to point to as an example of progress in the Ghetto. Just a mile or so from Washington High School, LASC was supposed to be a bright shining star in the neighborhood. To some it was. When I first saw it, it reminded me of what the infamous Maginot Line in Pre World War II France must have looked like. It consisted of four buildings sitting on top of a hill, and some older prefab building that resembled aircraft hangers on the lower campus. The main buildings were multi storied concrete affairs with tinted windows that resembled slots in fortress wall. The building had the look of a fortress. I guess someone decided that if there were more riots, this was one place that would not burn.

There was a big practice football field, but no gym and grass was sparse. It was not what I imagined college would be like. I enrolled with a Journalism Major, and my first day in class, I got a big surprise. I walked into the journalism department and came face to face with an old friend… Well at least an acquaintance… Jeff Sneed was a guy I knew in Jr. High School back in my Bethune days. He was smart, athletic, and had the kind of looks girls drooled over. If you can remember Dr. J, Julius Irving of the Philadelphia 76ers, then you have an idea of what Jeff looked like. Jeff was the kind of guy who was so good looking even guys said he was good looking. “Yo man, don't I know you,” I said, upon encountering him. He looked at me and smiled. “Yeah man, we went to school together at Bethune.” I laughed, “No shit. Small world. So you are studying Journalism too?” He nodded his head, and we started to rap. That was the first day of a friendship that would last for years to come. Jeff and I would become best friends, competitors and eventually enemies. But neither of us knew this at that moment, and we were both just happy to see someone we knew in a new place.

Life at LASC was interesting. It was the first time in my life where I did not have to go to school. I was an adult now, and going to class was a choice, not an obligation. My father died in February of 1978 of complications from cancer, and I was pretty much on my own at that point. Leti and I had broken up over the summer, and I was flying solo. LASC was a good choice for me. I don't think my head was on right to be starting UCLA at that particular time in my life.

When we arrived at LASC, the journalism program had a new professor, Mark Day, a 30-something writer of some note, who was a kind of social activist. Mark was as Liberal as they came. A Jewish dude who was obviously suffering from “Liberal Guilt,” and who gave us way too much damned control over the campus paper. Truthfully, Mark seemed to be a bit intimidated by us. Especially Nita, the reigning editor of the paper when I arrived. Nita was this tough little black chick with a short afro, tight body and even tighter jeans, he he… She would have been “tight,” if not for the fact that she had a so-s0 face, and the butch haircut gave her a quasi lesbian look in my eyes at the time. She was also a bitch at times, but she was a good writer, if not that great an editor. It was the campus paper that gave me the sense of mission to get up everyday and go to school, even when I didn’t have to, and I jumped in with a passion. By the end of the first Semester, Nita was out. She and Mark had gone at it on more than one occasion, and she did not hesitate to play to race/sex card. If she didn’t get what she wanted, it was, “You just don't respect a woman Mark.” Or “You just can’t handle a strong black woman Mark.” Mark had his issues, but any objective observer could tell the man was bending over backwards to be accommodating. I was named Executive Editor of the paper the second Semester, and began a program to improve the quality of the paper. Jeff was named Managing Editor, and we began a partnership that would last for years.

We completely scrapped the look and feel of the paper, and executed a new design. We added a cartoonist, hired an old retired man from the neighborhood to sell advertisement for the paper. We grew the paper from four pages to eight and eventually to twelve. We broadened the scope of the paper to cover community events, movie reviews and strong editorial content, which was my focus. And the paper started to get noticed. If the first year was about “evolution,” the second year would be “revolutionary.” I didn’t date much while at LASC. The paper was my lady, and I really didn’t have time for much of a social life.

The one person I did hang with in my two years at LASC was Cheryl, believe it or not, the Captain of the Cheerleader squad. Cheryl was this Big, leggy, big chested, honey colored black girl, with a beautiful smile and a fun loving nature. We were never really, “official,” but we went out a couple of times. I think the reason Cheryl dug me was because I was not intimidated by her. She was a big girl, tall, athletic and strong. And she was aggressive. I think most of the Brothers at LASC were intimidated by her, although I don't think too many would have hesitated play quarterback/cheerleader captain with her. The truth was, I wanted her sexually, but she did not really turn me on intellectually. Perhaps that is why I never put too much effort into moving the relationship forward.

Since I wasn’t focusing on dating, I took the time to improve my writing, and to focus on winning the paper some respect. During the second semester we attended a regional Conference for journalism students. During the conference we met students from all over Southern California, but made friends with one group in particular, Golden West College. Golden West was a Junior College located in the heart of Orange County, probably one of the most conservative, and “whitest,” counties in all of Southern California. We could not have been more different our two schools, and yet we hit if off. We spend two days partying with them at the conference hotel, and on the second day of the conference, we took our first award in school history. We were awarded Best Small College Newspaper in Southern California. It was a tremendous honor, and a validation of all the hard work we had put in improving the paper. That weekend was about buzz, and the buzz was that there was a new player on the scene, and that our program would get some recognition out of it. Mark Day took the opportunity to use the award as a resume booster, and took a job at a more prestigious school. We really didn’t care. Mark had very little to do with the success of the paper anyway. My last words to him… “Fuck you Mark.”

Mark was replaced by Jack Matcha, a someone famous writer from Hollywood. Jack had written for the, “Good Times,” TV show, and was as good they get in writing fundamentals. Jack was old… Very Old, when he came to teach at LASC. He was this little hunched over man who walked with a cane, suffered from the worst dandruff I have ever seen, and had nose hairs that looked like a freakin’ forest. It was hard looking at the old dude, but damn could he teach!

Jack was a little conservative at times, but he mostly stayed out of the way and let us do our thing. By my third semester at LASC, the paper was generating enough ad revenue to pay for itself. We were making a difference. The paper was respected in the community, recognized by the student journalism community, and important enough to the school that I actually felt like I had a little bit of clout. It was 1979 and Disco was all the rage. I like most people my age, were Donna Summer Fans, and I actually got an interview with the Disco Diva. Unfortunately I never got to meet her in person, but I submitted a list of questions and she answered them. I also learned it was good to be a journalist, even a student one. I got to attend a number of concerts, movie premiers and what not, with a press pass. It was pretty cool shit.

Jeff and I worked hand in hand on the paper, but there were occasional clashes of egos. There finally came a time when I had to tell him that I was the boss, and that our friendship had nothing to do with business. It was an uncomfortable conversation, but one that needed to be had. We would not have another conflict like that one for a couple of years.

In our last semester, we attended the State Journalism Conference. This time we would not win best paper. But we didn’t totally wash out. I won an award for Best Sports Feature Story, and we received much acclaim as one of the best college papers in the State. Jeff and I both applied to the University of Southern California and were accepted that Spring. Neither of us were accepted into the Journalism Program as there were no slots available. We both decided to study Political Science. In may of 1980, I graduated and began the adventure of my life.

Salvaged from Google Cache

I have been asked often why I have a taste for Latin women. It’s a long story and one probably worthy of Freudian Analysis, but it probably started in 1976….

In October of 1975 I suffered arm and knee injuries while playing football for Washington High School. Those injuries required surgery and a recovery period of several weeks. Unlike previous years in school, I had never really focused on my studies at Washington, and they had suffered. When I finally returned to school after two months I was informed that there was no way I could successfully complete the 10th grade on time with my grades and the amount of work I was behind in. My mother met with the school principal and it was recommended that I transfer to a special school called continuation school.

Continuation Schools were a special program at that time designed for students who for various reasons had fell behind in their regular program. They were attended by a mixture of losers, teen mothers and various malcontents that the regular school simply did not want to deal with any more. They had no athletic programs, few frills and were considered a, “last chance,” for most kids. I was not “thrilled,” at the prospect of going to one of